


Pick a Number

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Canon Disabled Character, F/M, POV First Person, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Everyone's got a code, right? Probably? That was ours, or one of them. The code that meant "Remember what we did? Remember what I did to you, what you did to me?"</i>
</p>
<p>(Mostly pre-series, with non-spoilery references to <i>Feed</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick a Number

**Author's Note:**

> Porn Battle prompt: Shaun Mason/Georgia Mason, lights.
> 
> Content notes: Includes not-terribly-graphic references to not-entirely-vanilla sex.

"Pick a number."

Code. Everyone's got a code, right? Probably? That was ours, or one of them. The code that meant _"Remember what we did? Remember what I did to you, what you did to me?"_ or, boiled right down, _"Whatever else I'm doing right now, I'm thinking about fucking you."_

On the campaign trail George said it to me in a _meeting_ , for fuck's sake, with Senator Ryman three chairs away from us talking to his staff, when I was trying not to fall asleep from sheer boredom. She didn't look at me. She barely lowered her voice. "Shaun, pick a number."

"Nineteen," I said, and opened my eyes in time to see the tiny smile that darted across her lips. I watched her write it down, "19", circled three times, to make it look like I'd told her something...I don't know, something useful. Like it was something we'd ever write down.

**********

We have five possible answers: Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. The five "birthdays" we celebrated on a day we chose--not the exact same date each year, and never any of the dates that showed on our official documents. We picked a weekend and we went away, just the two of us, never to the same hotel and never under our real names. We looked for reasonable comfort and a lot of privacy, not luxury, although the second year we had a fireplace and the fourth year we had a little kitchen and literally didn't have to step outside the suite once during our stay.

Nineteen: George loved the fireplace. She got all excited in her quiet way, and I got the fire going and kept it burning low, right down to embers that glowed a dim enough red that she could look at them indirectly with her naked eyes. I'm not sure I turned the lights in that room on once while we were there, even after swapping out all the white bulbs for black ones.

Nineteen, still: When I fisted her for the first time, on a heap of blankets on the floor in front of that fireplace, with only those embers to see by, and she screamed low in her throat when it started making her come. When I _felt_ her orgasm from deeper inside her than I'd ever touched before, felt how hard her whole body clenched down on my hand and my wrist.

The intimacy of it struck us both speechless. Shadows and soft red light licked across her skin, and I did too, drunk on the way she moaned every time I moved my hand.

Pick a number. Think about what we did for the first time that particular year, what we decided on and then set aside until that weekend came around.

Twenty: The first time we ever acquired any kind of sex toy--which didn't come home with us, because there was a _reason_ we'd never risked anything like that before. You can't encrypt or password protect an object. And even though a lot of stuff could just as plausibly be for solo use, the idea of our parents maybe managing to snoop that far gave George hives.

So twenty was the first time George fucked me. She'd had her fingers in me before, so I'd figured I could imagine what it would be like. Wrong. She got noises out of me that I hadn't had any idea I could make, left me overwhelmed and babbling her name like it was the only word I knew.

Sometimes I hear someone say "twenty" and I flash right back to the look on her face while she watched me, the sounds she was making along with me, the way we held each other afterwards. How she kissed me like I was fragile, and maybe I was.

Five years. Five sets of memories to bring out and polish when it feels like the rhythm of our lives is a rush of work; no matter how much we love what we do, it's still good to have a buffer, a way of reminding ourselves that we can put the day-to-day stuff aside sometimes.

**********

"Pick a number," I said to her in the dark, four months into the campaign, when we were both run ragged and too wired to sleep.

George didn't answer in words, but she laughed for the first time in days as she slid into my arms, and I felt her smile when she kissed me.


End file.
